


Cioppino Royale

by neko_chelle (fivefootnothing)



Category: RPF - Food Network (tv)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivefootnothing/pseuds/neko_chelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elton was already starting to drift off, his arms hanging loosely on the cart's cracked, plastic bar. However much he looked forward to spending his weekends with his uncle--it sure beat helping Mom hot-glue centerpieces for the Atlanta Rotary's annual fundraising dinner--sometimes Uncle Alton was kind of...boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cioppino Royale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thermidor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thermidor).



> With special thanks to J for the quick and useful beta! And with apologies to Ian Fleming for the title.

 

 

The grocery cart kept listing left, its front casters squeaking and in sore need of grease. Elton struggled to keep the cart pointed forward, since he didn't want to lose track of his uncle in the vast, food-laden aisles.

"Elton?" Alton called over his shoulder as he hefted a pineapple from one hand to the other. "Have you ever actually considered the modern marvel that is the twenty-first century supermarket? I mean, think of it!" He raised the fruit up to his eye level. "A couple of generations ago, you wouldn't dream of seeing such a heavy and..." He gave the pineapple an eager sniff. "Delightfully fragrant specimen of _Ananas comosus_ in your corner store. Today? Why, a pineapple can be whisked from plantation to dessert plate in less than--"

Elton was already starting to drift off, his arms hanging loosely on the cart's cracked, plastic bar. However much he looked forward to spending his weekends with his uncle--it sure beat helping Mom hot-glue centerpieces for the Atlanta Rotary's annual fundraising dinner--sometimes Uncle Alton was kind of...boring. Sure, he helped out on school projects, and he taught how to make easy soups and sandwiches, which really helped when Mom took that day trip out to the candle factory and didn't return home until late.

But was this Alton Brown's only job?

Fingers snapped briskly in front of Elton's eyes. "Elton! Hey! You paying attention over here?" Alton chuckled softly. "You know, research has shown that altering your diet to include more healthy snacks and exercise and less processed, sugary junk can increase your energy and your attention span. Matter of fact, some schools have taken the somewhat radical step of offering a daily breakfast and an exercise regimen to all students. They found it helps the kids learn better. Keep that in mind for later."

Elton merely nodded, humoring his uncle and his uncle's love of random food facts.

"You okay?" Alton said, his head tilting down so that he could stare at his young nephew over the top of his glasses. It made him look like a disapproving schoolmarm. "Well, we're almost done here anyhow. Just need to make a short side trip to the fishmonger."

"What's for dinner tonight, Uncle Alton?" A loaded question, and Elton regretted it as soon as he had asked.

"A San Francisco favorite, my dear nephew."

"The flavored rice from the box? Mom makes that all the time. It's kinda gross."

"No!" Alton draped his arm around Elton's shoulder. "Not the flavored rice from the box. And I'm going to have to talk to your mother about that later. No!" He straightened his back, as if intoning his speech to the ages. "We are making a classic seafood stew, whose savory history dates back to the fishermen who settled in the San Francisco neighborhood of North Beach. Elton, we're making cioppino!"

"Gesundheit," said a smug, female voice.

Alton's face suddenly fell. "W!" he said, with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. "You're kind of out of your element today, aren't you? What are you doing in a supermarket?" he asked in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"As difficult as it might be for your pea-sized mind to comprehend, I go grocery shopping too."

"Funny, I figured you hunted the other store employees for food. That's why I could never get any help where you work."

"I'm not the only one keeping secrets, apparently." W nodded over to Elton. "Whoever thought it was a good idea for you to procreate?"

Elton's jaw dropped. "I'm not his son!"

Alton's jaw dropped. "He's not my son!"

"Strange, I'm actually relieved that there isn't a poor woman who would find Alton Brown attractive enough to bed." W studied Elton with a cold, measured stare. "Are you at least related to this guileless wonder?"

"Uh, he's my uncle."

W rested her hand on Elton's forearm, leaning close to whisper, "I'm so very sorry" into the boy's ear.

"It's okay," Elton said in the same tone of voice. "He's kinda weird, but really fun once you get to spend a lot of time with him."

W looked like someone had slipped a couple of ice cubes down the back of her perfectly-pressed jacket. "I'm so very sorry," she repeated.

"Anything else you wanted to do to me while we're here?" Alton said. "Insult my fashion sense? My parentage?"

"Yes," W replied swiftly. "Your choice of utensils."

Alton squinted in confusion, then glanced over at Elton as if looking for guidance on how to reply. "For stew?"

"For the shellfish," said W in an exasperated tone, unsure why she always fell for Alton Brown's shenanigans. The man knew his way around a kitchen perfectly well. He just acted like a complete idiot to make her do extra work in explaining the various gadgets. "You'll need an array of tools to remove the meat from within the shells, particularly for something like crab. I suggest..." she disappeared down one of the aisles for a moment, returning with a box of elongated, stainless steel utensils. "A seafood tool kit. The specially fitted crackers are curved near the pivot point to allow for better grip on those slippery shells. And these forks are pronged on one side and flat on the other to help fish out the meat."

"These?" Alton said, his nose wrinkling. "These look more at home in a dentist's office than a dinner table. I mean..." He opened the clear, hinged top and reached for one of the forks. "See that?" He floated the fork dangerously close to W's eyes. "You can scrape tartar off with that." Alton demonstrated with a few quick stabbing motions, causing W to stiffen and step away. "Nope. What we need are a couple of crocheting hooks and a mallet, not this twenty-five dollar uni-tasking monstrosity."

Crocheting hooks? What was he going to suggest next? Prepare pasta with a Play-Doh Fun Factory? The thought made W's stomach twinge uncomfortably. "Fine." She slammed the box lid down, disappointed that she didn't manage to trap Alton's fingers inside. "Use brute force like an ape."

"Ook-ook," muttered Alton. "You see what I have to put up with, Elton? Just be glad you don't have a cooking show and an ungrateful gadget guru. Elton?" He briefly looked over to the cart, discovering no sandy-haired young nephew. "Oh, bother."

A note hung on the grocery cart, and Alton snatched it up, scanning its contents.

> **
> 
> WE HAVE ELTON. TO KEEP HIM ALIVE, RETURN HOME AND COOK FOR US.
> 
> **

"Unsigned, the cowards! Though the penmanship is kind of pretty, even for block writing. And I like how the frilly ribbons fill in the rough edges at the corners. Wait!" Alton raised his finger up to W. "Do you have any idea who did this?"

"Fortunately, no." It was very difficult for W to hide her self-satisfied grin as she nodded towards the note. "It looks like you have some work to do."

*******

Alton didn't know what to expect when he arrived at the house. He approached the porch squatted down and away from the windows. Once he reached the door, he lifted his periscope--made from a couple of compact mirrors and a few pieces of PVC tubing--to peek inside. The house was completely dark and seemed as empty as when he and Elton left it this morning. Odd. Very odd, indeed.

He slipped through the front door quietly, wincing as the hinges started to squeak. "Uh, hello?"

The kitchen lights clicked on. Alton walked carefully, checking around him for any sign of the kidnappers. "Paul? Is this a prank? I don't care what you do. Interns don't get paid. We went over this before. Your experience is your salary."

No answer.

As he got closer to the kitchen, he became aware of a strange odor in the air. It raked at his nostrils, irritating and vile. On first inspection, it could have been a tomato-based sauce boiling on a stove, but something about it rubbed Alton's trained senses the wrong way. It clung to his soft palate and refused to dissipate, so he could nearly taste it. And despite his strong stomach, he still needed to dry-heave, his body convinced that it needed to rid itself of this toxin.

A figure, tall and impossibly slim, sat at the kitchen table. It had the papier-mache chicken in its lap, petting it with twig-like fingers.

"Your file shows no confirmed kills," said the figure, shoving a thick manila folder across the table. "Care to elaborate on how you still gained celebrity chef status?"

Alton stared at the stranger, only knowing her from the frightening tales told in whispered tones by production assistants who somehow escaped her clutches. And they were the lucky ones. Many others didn't make it, doomed to prepare fruity, alcoholic cocktails for the rest of their tragically brief lives. "Sandra Lee?" He'd always figured her a myth, like Bloody Mary. Repeat her name three times and she'd appear, causing havoc by strewing potpourri on tabletops.

She nodded, grinning that terrible, Stepford grin of hers. "You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Brown."

"I don't know what you're talking about. And how'd you get my secret Food Network file? They told me they sealed it in the same time-locked vault as the Classic Coke recipe!" He grabbed the folder and shoved it into a nearby drawer. "Where's Elton?"

Sandra pointed to one side of the kitchen, near the stove. Elton was trussed up in butcher's twine like a _roulade_ , his mouth covered with a dishcloth. He managed to wiggle his mouth and chin free for a moment. "Don't do what she says, Uncle Alton. It's a trick! It's a tra--mmppphhh!" A disembodied hand slid into view and wrapped the cloth tightly around Elton's mouth.

"Thing?!" Alton exclaimed in complete disbelief. "Don't tell me she's gotten to you too! Okay, that's the final straw. I'm not getting you that new watch you wanted for Christmas."

Thing wiggled its fingers as if saying "I don't care" and slipped out of sight.

"Oh, that is it." Alton stomped towards Sandra Lee and slammed his fists on the table. "You kidnap my nephew, come into my home, cook who the heck knows what. And now you brainwashed my best kitchen assistant? What do you want?"

"I want to see your skills, Mr. Brown."

"Uh, you can call me Alton, you know. I'm not too picky about formality." He was chuckling, even though Sandra Lee's weird mannerisms were starting to irk him. Normal people didn't speak like that. Maybe she was an android, like W. Wow, that would be a hoot!

"On the counter, Mr. Brown," Sandra continued, not appearing to have noticed the interruption at all. "You will see that I've placed a live lobster and a live crab. You're willing to cook cioppino, a traditional Italian dish..."

"Actually, it's considered an Italian- _American_ dish, originating in San Francisco in the late--"

"Cioppino! Mr. Brown! The traditional way. I already have the broth cooking on the stove."

"Oh! Is that what that is? I thought you were boiling laundry."

"Prove to me that you are worthy of a twenty-seven DVD box set of your shows!"

Yikes, he was dealing with an unstable mind. "And if I do what you want, you'll let my nephew go?"

"A promise is a promise," Sandra replied, petting the chicken so forcefully that the paint had started to rub off.

"Fine." Alton approached the lobster first. "So, uh, put this little guy..." He lifted the lobster and checked beneath its tail. "Um, I mean girl--sorry, ma'am--out of her misery, huh?" He tried to ignore Elton's frantic flailing in the corner.

"Yes, and no chilling it until it's unaware of its surroundings. Or steaming it until it is dead. That, Mr. Brown, is cheating. It must be the knife, or nothing."

"You are a cruel, cruel individual." Alton took up the chef's knife. Hard, cold steel hovered above stalk-mounted eyes. Straight down, like he was taught. Pierce the exoskeleton with the forged tip of a blade and then bifurcate the head.

Easy kill. Humane kill.

The little bugger wouldn't know what hit her until it was too late.

"I can't do it," he said with a shrug, placing the chef's knife on the cutting board.

Sandra huffed and flung the chicken towards Alton. "They're bugs!"

He caught the chicken and set it carefully on the counter. Then he adjusted his glasses more firmly on his nose. "I know that they're bugs."

"Vermin of the sea."

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far. I mean, the lobster _is_ an opportunistic feeder, but you can't just treat them like vermin. Besides, apart from the reams of research dedicated to the question of whether members of the phylum _Arthropoda_ can sense pain the way our own primate brains do--"

"Kill it, Mr. Brown! Show me why you host two shows on the network, and I only have one!"

" _Three_ shows, actually. You probably forgot Feasting on Asphalt. Common mistake. It was only on for a month and--" Alton suddenly found himself on the business end of a .45.

"Mr. Brown," Sandra said in the calmest of voices. "You kill that lobster, or I kill you."

"Alright! Alright. Fine. But I'm going to need a seafood fork."

"Chromed or satin finish?"

"What? Does it matter? Uh, fine! Fine. You choose."

Sandra kept the gun trained on Alton as she handed him the fork. "No funny business. Don't assume that just because I'm a best-selling author, I don't know how to use this."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Alton said with a smile. "Good length. Long and thin enough to get into the little nooks and crannies of any exoskeletal specimen. Nice." He spent an extremely long time studying the utensil, and then promptly rammed it into Sandra's arm.

Sandra howled, and the gun went off. A second later, a body tumbled out of a nearby closet.

"Paul!" Alton exclaimed, rushing to his intern's side.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Brown," Paul said between coughs. "I let her in. She..." Pink, bloody froth started to bubble at the corners of his mouth.

"Hang in there, Paul. You're going to be okay."

Paul grabbed at the collar of Alton's bowling shirt. "Take Elton and get as far away as you can."

"What? No. Paul, I'm not leaving without you."

"You gotta, Mr. Brown. You just gotta!" Paul gritted his teeth, mustered all of his strength, and struggled to his feet. He approached Sandra, but before she could fire off another round, he pressed all his weight down on her, shoving her towards the stove. "Now! Go now!"

Alton watched Paul and Sandra tear the kitchen into shambles, and he wished that he'd actually paid him because the guy undoubtedly deserved a raise. After snapping himself out of his thoughts, he rushed towards his nephew and freed him from the twine. "C'mon, Elton. Let's roll!"

They made it outside before Sandra had a chance to give chase. Alton patted the back of his BMW motorcycle, indicating that Elton should hop on. He placed a helmet in the boy's hands. "Put that on, Elton. It's gonna be a really long ride, and we won't be able to stop until after dark."

"Where are we going, Uncle Alton?"

Alton strapped on his own helmet and straddled the bike. "I promised you cioppino, my boy. We might as well head for California so I can show you where it came from!"

"But what about Mom?"

"Oh, don't worry about your mother. I'll just tell her that this road trip is educational!"

Laughing maniacally, Alton pushed the visor down over his face and started up the bike. They sped off west, in the sincere hope that somewhere along their travels, they would encounter some good eats.

 


End file.
